


Days In The Life Of A Broken Man

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Memories [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Danse has no sense of humor, Depression, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt, False Memories, Fear, Grief/Mourning, Head Injury, Heavy Angst, Insomnia, Leadership, M/M, Memories, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Blind Betrayal, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-03 15:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Even after the Brotherhood of Steel arrives at the Commonwealth in force, Danse is burdened by his perceived shortcomings as a leader and his fears of growing close to others since Cutler's death.





	1. The Chains Of Command

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Blind Betrayal. I just wanted to write some angsty character fluff of Danse, because... well, it's Danse, and everything about him is angsty. It's unavoidable.

**APRIL 2274**

 

It had confused him until this moment, the description given to him by the trader he’d run into. How a bridge moved and it kept the city safe. But now he got it, being able to see it for himself, and if he was honest… the sight was kind of unbelievable. He’d never seen a bridge move.

Of course, now he was hesitant to walk across it. He had no way of knowing that it wouldn’t move again or even collapse into the water as soon as he stepped onto the metal grating. Still, he didn’t have a place to sleep tonight otherwise, so he hesitantly began making his way forward. The bridge didn’t so much as shake, though, which seemed almost miraculous.

At the end of the bridge, a man in black armor with one of those sticks used for beating people tied to his waist was watching him. He tensed up a little - despite his meager diet, he knew he was kind of big and strong-looking, so maybe people would be afraid of him. Super mutants were bigger and stronger than him, and he was scared of them, so it seemed logical.

“Never seen you before,” the guard grunted. “Whatcha doing here, kid?”

“Um… I have… scrap,” he answered, gesturing to his battered rucksack. “I’m from way up north, I’ve been trying to get here. Maybe I can sell some of it and make a better living.”

“You can try,” the guard shrugged. “Go on in, just don’t act like dick cheese to everyone and they’ll probably leave you alone.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

Hefting his pack higher up on his shoulder, he opened the screechy metal door and entered Rivet City for the first time. He’d never been in one of these giant… things before, or even seen one, but despite their safety from the rest of the Capital Wasteland he didn’t really see the appeal of it. The air was damp and stank of rust, the whole structure was rumbling and groaning, and the lighting was far from adequate.

Even with signs being everywhere, he still got confused and lost for several long moments before finally stumbling across the damn market. A man in a stupid-looking helmet seemed the least put-off by him, so he went over there after briefly surveying the area.

“You’re obviously new here,” the guy greeted. “I’m Seagrave Holmes, I sell pretty much everything… but if I’m not here trading it’s probably because I’m off fixing something. So, buying or selling?”

“What?”

“You’re here in the market, right? Are you here to buy stuff or to sell stuff?”

“Oh. Um, I have some junk to sell,” he answered, awkwardly dumping out his rucksack. Cans, spoons, a hot plate. A couple boxes of Instamash and a bottle of purified water, but those were for him and he stuffed them back in. “There was more, but… well, it took a long time for me to get here.”

“I get it,” Seagrave nodded, scooping up his unimpressive little pile and sticking it on one of his own shelves. “None of the regulars know you, so you probably won’t make anything, but I’ll sell this for you and split the caps. Sound good?”

“I suppose, but why?”

“Trust me, you’ll make more even doing this than trying to sell it on your own. What’s your name so that I can find you later?”

“Jacob.”

“Yeah? Jacob what?”

“Just Jacob,” he answered. If he even had a last name, he had no idea what it was supposed to be. He only knew that sometimes other people had last names. “I’m tall, you should be able to locate me once you’ve gotten the caps.”

Seagrave chuckled a little. “That’s true. Well, Jacob, it’s nice to meet you. Go rest up and eat, you clearly need it.”

After getting lost again, he discovered the area where people who couldn’t afford nice rooms were allowed to sleep on thin cots bolted to the walls. Jake tossed his now virtually empty pack under one, noting a footlocker but deciding not to rummage it. He spared some of his last bottle of water to make the box of food into the slightly contaminated paste that was supposed to be considered edible. Scrounging and hiding hadn’t made him into an especially picky eater, but that didn’t mean he actually liked this shit.

With his stomach reasonably filled, he kicked off the remains of his shoes and rolled onto his back. The last thought in Jake’s mind before his exhaustion caught up with him was wondering if he was being an idiot by trusting that man in the market with his scrap.

 

_“Will you shut the fuck_ up, _kid?!” one of the strangers hissed at him in the dark. “They’re gonna come back and kill us if you keep it up!”_

_Jake tried to stifle his whimpers, but he was pretty sure they broke something under his chest. It hurt to breathe, and that just made him whimper, which made it hurt more. The pain in his chest made the rest of him feel like it hurt, too, which was awful. And the floor was cold. He didn’t want to lay on the cold floor but it hurt too much to sit._

_Eventually Jake was shivering, which just meant more pain. The floor was cold and he hurt and being cold was also starting to hurt. He couldn’t be quiet, even though making noise was painful, and he was scared that the stranger in the dark was right and they’d come back to kick him in the chest again. His chest was already broke, though…_

 

Jake was yanked out of his childhood nightmare when a hand grabbed his tattered shirt (ripping it further by doing so) and more or less threw him to the metal deck. He yelped on the impact and his eyes flew open to find a grimy person probably a couple years younger than him as the culprit. His eyes were gray and his hair was raggedly cut, so full of mud that there was no way of ascertaining the color.

“You’re on my bunk, asshole. Grab your shit and piss off,” the guy snarled.

“I didn’t know,” Jake tried to reason, scrambling to his feet. He was bigger and taller, but despite the way his life had been until now he knew he wasn’t the best fighter. His whole strategy boiled down to _hit as hard as I can a couple times and then run for it._ “I’m new here.”

“Yeah, this is me pretending to give a shit. Get the fuck away from my bed.”

Annoyed but not willing to start something he wasn’t sure he could finish, Jake complied with a calculated neutral expression. He watched the demanding and rude man flop down onto the cot, fold his hands behind his head, and then - most perplexingly - offer a very warm smile. “Hi! So you’re new here?”

“I just said I was,” Jake replied flatly. He didn’t let his shock or confusion appear; no emotion. It was key not to show emotion until he knew what he was dealing with. “I didn’t know the bed was owned.”

“Yeah, it is. Just don’t do it again and I won’t hassle you for nothing, okay?” The man didn’t even wait for an answer before continuing. “I’m Cutler, I go out and dig shit up for the traders here so their pansy-asses don’t have to go out into the Wasteland. Why are you here? Are you going to stay very long? Who even _are_ you? You seem like an okay guy.”

“Uh…” Jake struggled for an answer to the questions that had just been machine-gunned at him. “I’m Jacob, I brought scrap to sell. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

“All that muscle and you’re just a junk-humper?” Cutler sat up and cocked his head. “Shit, I figured you’d at least be a merc stopping in for gear or whatever. Your scar says ‘Talon Company Reject.’”

“I’m not a fucking mercenary for fucking Talon Company,” Jake exploded, vastly insulted by that remark. “My scars and anything else about me isn’t your problem, either.”

“Christ, alright!” Cutler interrupted, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “I get it! Didn’t mean to piss in your Sugar Bombs there.” The man relaxed again after that, back to looking absurdly friendly in spite of both the previous altercations between them. “So, you go by Jacob, or just Jake? Or Jakie? I heard someone name their dog that once. Dog was fucking nuts, he’d pull rocks out of the Potomac and bark at them for an hour. Or your last name? I go by mine instead of my first. What _is_ your last name?”

“Jake is fine,” he answered once there was a pause long enough for him to do so. “And I don’t have one.”

“Got it. I’ve met people like that. Were you born in The Pitt? I had a friend from there, he had no last name. He died last month. Raiders got him.”

Such a casual statement of fact about his friend’s passing was slightly off-putting to Jake, but not surprising. He’d been around death so much and had only seen people _really_ get upset over it if the victim was their offspring or romantic partner.

“Please answer this honestly,” Jake broke in. “Why the hell do you talk so much? And you do it so fast I can barely keep up with your words.”

“Ah, that. Dunno. I just am that way. Hey, you talk funny too, you know. You’re way too… um… well-talked, I guess, for a junk-humper from the Wasteland. Do you read a lot?”

“No.”

“Don’t know how, right?”

“Not really,” Jake admitted, finally kicking his pack under the next bunk over and sitting down; he was still very tired from his journey and had only slept for a couple hours before Cutler had tossed him onto the floor. “I recognize certain road signs and I can spell my name.”

“Hm.” Cutler nodded. “Yeah, sounds about right. I can a little bit.”

“Please,” Jake finally interrupted, holding up a hand, “not that I’m not glad we seem to have resolved our issues with each other, but I’m exhausted.”

“Sure, get some sleep,” Cutler grinned, “now you’ve got your own bed.”

* * *

**NOVEMBER 2287**

 

It was interesting, Danse mused, how he seemed to meet the strangest people in the strangest ways… whether by accidentally sleeping on an owned cot or while trying not to be eaten by voracious feral ghouls.

The man’s name was Anthony Kostin. He was thin and wrapped in shredded pre-war military clothing, carrying a makeshift automatic pipe rifle and armored only in the duct tape and scrap metal usually worn by raiders. Clearly, though, he wasn’t a marauder - he was much too clean for that, apparel notwithstanding, and generally well-spoken.

Kostin had recovered the holotags from and data pertaining to the lost Knights, as well as aided Danse in searching the ArcJet facility for the component he needed to make contact with the Citadel. Incredibly, he’d even found Paladin Brandis - still alive - and gotten the grizzled soldier back to Cambridge.

All of this was written into the report, of course. Danse was settled behind the front counter of the police station and tapping the pen idly, trying to think if there was anything else of note he should document about the man. Kostin was such a strange case, if not for his refreshingly selfless actions then because he was apparently over two centuries old. He also undoubtedly had a lot of potential as a Brotherhood recruit, given his prior military service, physical stamina and keen mind.

Danse pulled the hood of his flight suit down from his head and rubbed his face; all that remained now was to stay alive long enough for the message to reach the Citadel, and he might actually be able to sponsor Kostin into the Brotherhood.

It bothered him minutely that Kostin did have other priorities, though. The man was engulfed in a frantic search for his son, which Danse could easily see becoming an obstacle to bringing him into the fold. The Brotherhood tended to prefer its soldiers not to be attached… they wouldn’t turn someone away explicitly because of this reason, but it had to be heavily reinforced that the Brotherhood of Steel came before any other obligations. Those recruits who had spouses or offspring tended to object to the idea, which generally resulted in a tedious discussion about why they needed to let go of those notions.

Thinking about it was making his headache worse. He’d been having migraines and insomnia for over a year and a half, before even departing for the Commonwealth, and the two symptoms fed into each other - Danse couldn’t sleep because his head always hurt, and the chronic exhaustion worsened the pain. On occasion he’d even become incapacitated by it to such a degree that he’d drank himself into unconsciousness just to get some relief from the pounding agony of his skull, which made him wonder if he was on the road to legitimate alcoholism.

Reflecting on this, potential addiction be damned, Danse was starting to think that a shot or two might be a good idea. The throb was climbing down his neck from the base of his skull, now, and it felt like a minor explosion had occurred somewhere in the vicinity of his optic nerves. Pain was a constant of life in the field, but eventually it was simply too much and he needed respite.

All of his joints popped as he got out of the chair, his legs and back stiff. Danse held in his groan of discomfort and retreated to their cache of dwindling supplies, recovering a dusty bottle of vodka and tossing back a scorching mouthful on the spot.

Haylen had gotten the transmitter upgraded a handful of hours ago, so they were just waiting for a response. Danse was surprised to realize his mixed feelings on the subject… he missed his brothers and sisters, the Library. But he didn’t want to return to his bunk in B-Ring. Cutler’s had been right next to his, and Danse’s ill-fated search for his best friend had been mere weeks prior to his deployment for the recon mission. After Cutler’s death, Danse had broken protocol and slept out in the Bailey like the Initiates.

Thinking of his dead comrade, Danse took another burning gulp of the clear liquor and headed back to his paperwork with the bottle still in his palm. It never ceased to baffle him how his emotional wounds were still raw and bleeding years after they’d been inflicted - the scars around his right eye from when he’d escaped the slavers as a boy served as a constant reminder that he’d very nearly fallen victim to one of the group’s many child-rapists, his broken nightmares always let him know that somewhere along the line a head injury had occurred and that was why he had trouble remembering parts of his life. His migraines and insomnia left him vulnerable to the little voice in his mind that kept eating him by saying he’d failed his squad, he’d failed his best friend, he’d failed the Brotherhood. It told Danse that he was a vastly ineffective officer and that Arthur should’ve picked a different squad leader for this mission, because almost anyone else would have done a better job than he had.

Another swig of vodka. Maybe he could make the little voice shut up, too, if he drowned it in alcohol.

The capillaries in his skin were already beginning to flush, making him feel uncomfortably warm despite the lack of central heating. Danse unzipped his flight suit to his waist and tied the sleeves around his body, leaving the slight dampness of sweat to start drying from his stained undershirt. He folded his arms on the surface in front of him and rested his forehead on them, eyes closing, just to rest for a moment.

Very shortly after that, Danse was startled by Haylen pushing on his shoulder.

“Scribe?” he questioned, raising his head with a wince because his neck was stiff.

“I picked up a signal,” she beamed. “The _Prydwen_ is on route, sir.”

“Excuse me?” Danse rubbed his eyes and wiped the corner of his mouth, mentally berating himself for falling asleep at his post and drooling on his paperwork. He was thirsty and the headache was back in full force, sledgehammers pounding away on the inner walls of his cranium.

“The Brotherhood is coming, sir,” Haylen answered. “Their ETA is 19:00 hours tomorrow night.”

“Outstanding,” Danse replied, trying not to let his physical unwellness show. He straightened up out of the chair and immediately regretted it, but refused to betray how much his head was swimming. “Let’s prepare for their arrival, then. I… I need to rewrite these reports. In the meantime, I want Rhys to do an inventory of our remaining supplies and you to check the squad terminal. Make sure the data we’ve compiled is in proper order and effectively organized. Once that’s done, I’d like you to give Brandis another brief psychiatric evaluation so that we can accurately report his condition to the CMO when they arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Haylen saluted crisply before obeying, leaving Danse alone with his ruined forms again. He was disheveled and unshaven, his uniform wasn’t in proper order and he stank of liquor. Nothing about him was befitting an officer of the Brotherhood, but at the moment he was too distracted to care - he’d now gotten to the point where it felt like his brain was being crushed by the back of his forehead.

Water and an ineffective stimpak later, Danse was struggling to copy the data onto a clean sheet of paper as his eyes kept losing focus. He was hazy with pain and his mouth seemed to be sticking to itself, his hands shook as he tried to write, and his neck was still sore from sleeping over a desk for several hours.

To take a break from his sitting hell, Danse reset the short-wave to stop broadcasting the distress call and instead order any members of the Brotherhood back to the police station. To his knowledge, there was only one such soldier who wasn’t present, but protocol was protocol and he didn’t have the energy to try making contact with Kostin through other means.

Actually, he’d ruined a lot of paperwork about Kostin, which he was now forcing himself to rewrite. The man had been so damn helpful, and even efficient. He’d be an asset for future missions.

“Paladin?”

Haylen’s quiet voice once again pulled him out of his stupor.

“Do you need something, Scribe?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted,” Danse ceded, slightly concerned.

“You look like shit.”

“Agreed,” he nodded. His eyes wanted so desperately to close that they burned. “Was there a point to that observation?”

“You need to rest, sir,” Haylen began. “Even if it’s just for tomorrow while we’re waiting for the _Prydwen._ If you don’t take care of yourself you’re going to get hurt.”

“Your concerns are noted,” Danse replied dismissively. He couldn’t rest and he knew it; once the Brotherhood arrived _en masse,_ there would by far too much work for him to take even the briefest reprieve. Surely Haylen was aware of this. “I’ve sustained countless injuries before now, Scribe. If I was afraid to risk my physical health nothing would ever get accomplished.”

“That’s the problem,” she insisted. “The world won’t fall apart if you take a break, sir. I know you don’t think you need it, but you’re wrong. You need to take some time to get refreshed, and before you say anything about your responsibilities as an officer in the field, I can tell you absolutely that you haven’t been at your best performance in weeks.”

“The squad hasn’t been at its best performance in weeks,” Danse pointed out, rubbing his face. “We’ve suffered significant losses. You already know that.”

“The rest of us don’t have to drink ourselves to sleep every night,” Haylen almost whispered. Her eyes didn’t leave his. “Rhys and Brandis haven’t noticed, but I have. And everything you’re doing recently tells me you’re in trouble, sir.”

Danse did his best to brush this off as well. “Your sentiments are appreciated, but I’m fine. And I don’t indulge in alcohol nearly as frequently as you’ve suggested.”

Haylen eyed him at that, but apparently it got through to her that he wasn’t going to budge on the issue because she just sighed and nodded. “I just wanted to make sure, sir.”

“Understandable. As I said, it’s appreciated. It’s just not necessary. If that was all, you’re dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Danse being roughly 19-22 years old when he arrives at Rivet City, or at least in the physical sense. It's my headcannon that he was a synth before joining the BoS and that's why nobody knew.


	2. Intelligent Terror

**NOVEMBER 2287**

 

Reinforcements arrived at the police station almost three hours earlier than anticipated, but Danse wasn’t about to complain.

A decon was set up by the field medics for the four of them, scrubbing their bodies (and, in Danse’s case, his power armor) with surfactants before fresh uniforms were issued and RadAway was administered. Brandis had the toughest time with the procedure, but that wasn’t unexpected, and one of the medics was posted to provide protective supervision until the traumatized Paladin could be seen by Cade.

Despite the chemical bath and laundered apparel, Danse didn’t feel clean. He needed a real shower, with hot water and soap instead of radionuclide-absorbing foam… he needed to wash this entire grueling ordeal away. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. It was now scarred into his memories like the old wounds marking his skin, and there was no escaping it. He’d live with this disastrous mission forever, along with executing Cutler and the brutality of Paradise Falls.

Brandis was medevaced to the ship as soon as clearance was given, and in the meantime Initiate Kostin returned. He seemed slightly changed since their previous encounter, and on greeting him Danse picked up why this was the case. He was generally terrible at deciphering nonverbal cues, but instantly recognized the expression in his recruit’s eyes - it was the exact look that stared back at Danse from the shaving mirror.

Something had happened to Kostin; he seemed to be putting on a brave face, not acting any different from how he’d been before, but his eyes were red with exhaustion and alarmingly bleak. Something irreplaceable had been stolen from the man and then shattered right in front of him. Danse knew that feeling all too well, and out of concern he hovered by the Initiate while waiting for his own clearance to leave the police station.

Kostin put up with the routine decon obediently, and instead of his ancient military uniform being returned they gave him a set of dark Brotherhood fatigues. The shirt had a small hole in the elbow, but still Kostin didn’t complain and accepted the garb.

Now dressed properly as a member of the Brotherhood, Danse pointed out that Kostin should also get his hair seen to once they’d arrived at the _Prydwen_ to a length more befitting a soldier. The Initiate agreed with a one-word answer, and Danse wondered what could’ve befallen the man to wound his enthusiasm.

“A word, Initiate?” he offered.

“Of course, sir,” Kostin nodded.

Danse led his recruit to a quiet corner of the building. “You seem to be distressed, soldier.”

“Well, that’s a lot different.” Kostin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Until now I’ve been pretty carefree.”

“I don’t follow,” Danse replied, confused. Nothing up to this point would’ve indicated that the other man was in any way living happily.

Kostin shook his head. “I tracked down a lead and it didn’t pan out the way I hoped,” he admitted, glancing at the floor. “Not that I thought finding Shaun would be _easy,_ but… every step forward I’ve been able to take seems to triple the impossibility of me reaching him. I have reason to believe the Institute are the ones who abducted him.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Danse agreed sympathetically. “The data we’ve been able to acquire on the Institute so far has pointed to them being a highly malignant organization. They tend to be subtle and insidious, but if it helps, I’m confident the Brotherhood is able to find means of removing the threat they pose.”

“Well, if the huge metal balloon is anything to go by, I’d say you’re right,” Kostin chuckled, finally seeming a little more like himself. “And it’s full of your friends?”

“It seems that Elder Maxson has arrived with a force of over three hundred,” Danse nodded. They headed back out into the main space. “I freely admit, Initiate, it’s highly likely they never would have located us without your help. My squad and Paladin Brandis are grateful for it.”

“It’s nothing,” Kostin shrugged. “Your cause is noble. Even once I get Shaun back, I still want to help if it’ll make the world safer for him to grow up in.”

Danse was pleased to hear this, and it settled a little bit of his doubt about Kostin’s ability to prioritize. “Absolutely. The preservation and understanding of technology is one of our primary goals, but it’s in the name of humanity. We’re striving to implement such resources towards responsible ends and prevent another catastrophe on the scale of the Great War.”

“I think that’s important,” the thin man nodded. He seemed serious on the topic, but also contemplative. “‘He who fails to learn the mistakes of the past is doomed to repeat them,’ after all. I think the Brotherhood knows that, too, from what I’ve seen so far. And that’s huge.” Kostin was shifting a little; Danse had noticed that he tended to become somewhat animated while discussing topics he was passionate about. Elder Maxson was the same way, talking with his hands… and Cutler had been like that, too. “This place needs that. People like you… sorry, people like _us,_ to try and get mankind back to some kind of structure.”

“I wish everyone shared your insight,” Danse commented, impressed. “Not all grasp the significance of our mission. It can and does make achieving our objectives difficult. But with everything you’ve expressed, I can safely speculate that you won’t be disappointed, Initiate.”

Shortly following, clearance finally came through for Danse to bring his recruit to the ship. After the transit via vertibird, they attended Maxson’s briefing and then he paraded Kostin around to meet various officers. The freshly-promoted Knight took everything in stride, never objecting, meeting any inquiries with good humor. Teagan issued Kostin two of the hooded orange flight suits at the end of the meet-and-greet, and then Danse pointed his protege in the direction of the barracks.

Not eager for the struggle of fitful sleep and murky nightmares, Danse abstained from retiring to his own bunk and instead indulged in a hot shower.

The filmy residue from the decon solution was rinsed from his skin, making Danse feel more like a human being than he had in over a year. He smelled like military soap, now, not chemicals, and as his muscles relaxed he even felt his headache lessen slightly. The towels were rough and a little stiff from abraxo detergent, the air in his new quarters was mildly stale, the floor was cold under his bare feet until he rolled socks over them and then laced up his boots on top of that. But it made him feel secure.

Reflecting on his prior speculations, Danse wasn’t sure why he’d expected to return to the Citadel, but was nonetheless glad he was stationed here instead. There was no trace of his dead friend on the _Prydwen_ to refresh the pangs of his loss.

Danse dressed in his own set of Brotherhood fatigues, not seeing the point in donning a clean flight suit so late in the evening, and retreated to the armor pool with his personal set of tools in hand. They were desgined for field use, but even now that he had the opportunity to fully repair his suit in a proper maintenance chassis, Danse preferred them over the communal tool kits.

There was so much to be done for his T-60 armor. Ball-bearings to rotate or switch out completely. High-grade lubricants to apply instead of whatever he’d scavenged. Grit and rust to remove from the joints and pistons. Lead shielding under the hard ballistic plates that had been ruptured and needed to be replaced or welded back into shape. Stripped servos in the leg armor that were beyond salvage. Bolts on the inner frame which needed tightening. Shock-dampening coils in the feet that were loose and required full recalibration. Hell, even a fresh coat of paint was in order.

At least it kept him from thinking and questioning too much. Power armor repair was hard labor, extremely demanding even for fit soldiers like him, and Danse lost himself to the rhythm of it. His mind forgot how much pain he was in, physically or otherwise, and only pictured which tool he required at the moment - wrench, screwdriver, blowtorch.

“Still a robot who can’t relax, huh?”

Danse tilted his head to find Proctor Ingram smirking down at him. He got off his knees, frowning as he wiped grease from his palms onto the legs of his pants.

“It’s a luxury I’ve never been able to afford,” Danse offered in reply. “And even so I find it mildly hypocritical that you’re discussing this with me.”

“Pain keeps me up,” Ingram answered mildly. “You try sleeping when all you want to do is scratch a foot that’s not there.”

“Has Cade offered any new solutions?”

“Nope. I’m used to it, though. I can tune it out for a while, at least… why are you still up and about, Paladin? Didn’t you just arrive tonight?”

“Yes. My time of return is immaterial when there are tasks to be dealt with.”

“Jesus, Danse. Your need to work yourself to death puts Maxson to shame sometimes, you know that?”

“Hopefully my efforts in the field help alleviate some of his workload,” Danse shrugged. “He has a lot on his plate and it’s my job to assist him where I’m able.”

“Whatever you say, Paladin,” Ingram chuckled. “I think you need to see Cade, though.”

“Why?” Danse demanded, suddenly alarmed. Had Haylen reported him for drinking on duty?

“The stick up your ass seems to have a stick up its ass… not that that’s anything new, but you should’ve gotten it removed a while back,” the Proctor grinned. “Lighten up, Danse. Your face is going to freeze into that starch-assed expression if you don’t.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Danse grunted, turning back to the task at hand.

* * *

**JANUARY 2276**

 

“They’re asking for last names,” Cutler hissed.

“Yes, I know that,” Jake snapped. “That doesn’t mean I can just pull one out of thin air!”

“Well, why the hell not?” his friend argued quietly. “Just fucking pick one! They won’t know the difference!”

While waiting their turns to speak with the recruiters, Jake frantically tried to come up with a last name for himself. It was a blank line on the paper that Cutler had more or less filled out for him, because he barely knew the whole alphabet and sometimes even misspelled his own first name. Dammit, dammit, he should’ve tried harder to resolve this before now and he knew it.

For some reason, all he could think about was one of the conversations he’d overheard in the market last night… it had been one of the rare occasions Dr. Li had ventured out of her lab and she’d been describing something to a person Jake didn’t recognize. The conversation had been an odd one, to say the least. Dr. Li was trying to get across this idea of two or sometimes more than two people being able to synchronize their movements, to an established rhythm, and others often found it impressive. The whole concept had baffled him at the time, and Jake couldn’t get it out of his head.

It also very suddenly gave him the stupidest idea he’d come up with in a good long while.

Not knowing how to spell the word, Jake just scribbled some letters and hoped they matched how it sounded when spoken. It was a terrible impulse and sure to get Cutler laughing at him. Before he got to the BoS recruiters, Jake glanced at the paper and eyed the spelling he’d used, hoping it was correct and that he hadn’t mistaken the letters… _D-A-N-S._ Then Cutler was poking his shoulder.

“That looks wrong,” his friend snorted, clearly trying to smother a bout of hysterics. “Add an ‘E’ to the end.”

He complied, annoyed at the other man for finding his panic amusing, and glared at the humiliating paper in his fist: _JACOB DANSE._ He had a last name, now, and it was terrible. It made him wonder why he’d thought this was a good decision.

* * *

**NOVEMBER 2287**

 

Danse was still laboring over his power armor when morning arrived and Knight Kostin reported to him after breakfast. He himself hadn’t eaten, but not by conscious choice; he’d simply been engrossed in his task and had forgotten.

“Morning, Paladin.”

“Kostin,” Danse acknowledged, fixing the cushioning material back in place on the inside of the frame before climbing to his feet. He was abruptly reminded of how long he’d been crouched in the same position, the fact that the most recent time he’d slept had resulted from the consumption of alcohol more than thirty hours ago, and that his head still _really_ fucking hurt. Danse winced and dug his fingertips into his temples. “Have you been briefed?”

“Last night, by Elder Maxson,” the Knight affirmed. “Sir, are you feeling okay? You look like you’ve got one foot in the grave.”

“I’ll be alright,” Danse replied. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d been forced to lie so completely to someone, but found himself doing so now. His eyes were trying to cross themselves again and moving them to focus on a new object sent daggers through his skull. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over.”

“Really,” his protege answered with obvious disbelief. “Because if you got any paler right now I’d be able to see right through your skin, sir.” Kostin lowered his voice. “Paladin, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but I’ve seen this before when I was in the army. I can’t be the first one to tell you this, but… you’re clearly not taking care of yourself, and you need to. If you get sick, we’ll all suffer for it, I promise you. With everything you’ve had to deal with, including whatever’s happened that I haven’t heard about, you’ve got to at least take today off before something goes seriously wrong. Sir.”

It was a strange notion for Danse - for all intents and purposes, Kostin was younger than him, and of course was a lower-ranking soldier. They didn’t know each other especially well at this point, either; one mission and some sporadic contact afterward didn’t promote effective bonding between team members. But the concern in Kostin’s voice was every bit as strong as Haylen’s had been yesterday, and even more than that the man now proved he had the knowledge to back up his point.

Danse sighed: “Your arguments are valid, Knight, and I appreciate your candidness. I encourage you to further acquaint yourself with the ship and your new comrades-in-arms during my absence… we’ll continue to pursue our objectives tomorrow. You’re dismissed for now.”

Kostin smiled as his arm came across his chest in a salute: “Thank you, sir. Ad victoriam.”

Danse grudgingly went to his quarters on the Knight’s suggestion after that, wondering why his protege had expressed gratitude. The relief it brought him as well only served to further deepen his confusion on the matter.

Stripping down to his underwear and shirt, Danse climbed into bed with overwhelming reluctance and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to relive the trauma from his brief slavery as a child, or the last moments of Cutler’s life before he’d ended his friend’s suffering. He was even less interested in the more unclear nightmares that sometimes surfaced, memories of pain with no discernible source and fragmented words spoken by others that held no meaning to his tortured mind. Or, worst of all, the strange horrors of people deciding to make surgical cuts into his face and body, murmuring about how they needed to make sure he wouldn’t recall them or the procedure. Those illusions terrified Danse to no end in the waking hours when he remembered them.

For once, it ended up being none of those. Instead this was one of the rare, gloomy nightmares, that he’d been so badly hurt he might not recover, how he couldn’t see out of one eye and nobody was coming to help him.

Danse woke in a sheen of his own sweat, frigid because the blanket had been thrown off in his slumber, breaths heaving and fists clenched and wondering why his brain didn’t actually hurt _more_ than it already did under the misnomer that he’d suffered a severe head wound.

It was around lunch, though, and since he’d neglected to have breakfast Danse knew it would be a poor choice to skip another meal. Besides, he still hadn’t quite finished with his power armor despite tending it all night, so he needed to get up anyway. It wasn’t a mission, so Kostin couldn’t fault him for not following the suggestion of respite.

That notion made Danse frown deeply to himself as he dressed. What did it matter whether his subordinate approved his decisions?

As if summoned by thought, Kostin seemed to appear from nothing beside him in the mess, and Danse saw it appropriate to dine with his protege. He was sponsoring the man, after all, so it was logical that he should make an attempt to bond with his new teammate.

“You’re looking better, sir,” the Knight commented as they sat with their meals.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Danse replied, compulsively making sure none of the food on his tray was touching. For some reason that had always bothered him. “How has your morning progressed?”

“Alright,” Kostin shrugged. “Scribe Neriah and Proctor Quinlan assigned me some additional research items to keep a lookout for when I’m in the field. Apparently she’s working on an alternative to RadAway. Actually her research sounded pretty interesting.”

“The Scribes chosen to accompany the _Prydwen_ are some of our best and brightest,” Danse agreed after swallowing his mouthful of cram. “I’m pleased you’re able to appreciate their scientific endeavors as well as the martial aspect of the Brotherhood.”

“Well, strength without knowing how to use it doesn’t help anyone,” Kostin smiled. The man was strongly giving the impression of being wise beyond his years, and Danse was genuinely impressed that it didn’t seem to be a conscious effort on the part of the Knight - the man just was that way. “And my wife was always smarter than me, too, so I’m glad that I’ll get to have intelligent conversations sometimes.”

“Understandable. Intellectual stimuli are proven to be beneficial to soldiers’ mental health.”

Kostin briefly showed an unreadable expression at that comment, but surprisingly said nothing in reply. They finished their meals in silence and Danse checked in with Cade about Brandis’ condition briefly before returning to his power armor repairs. In the next bay over, Knight Kostin was already at work, inspecting and tweaking his own newly-issued set with confident, dexterous hands.

Once again, Danse was highly impressed by the skill of the other man. It seemed the Knight was far from unfamiliar with T-60 armor and combat technology in general - he made a note to inquire about his protege’s prior military experience and what other surprises might be hiding in Kostin’s apparently wide skill set.

Having slept (even if it was fitful at best) and now eaten, Danse did notice that his chronic migraine was considerably more tolerable than it had been previously and was secretly grateful that Kostin had forced him to pause for that short period of time. He was much more efficient at his work, now, better able to focus and not feeling as drained by the demand of constantly wrestling with the heavy ballistic sections. Eventually the pair idly commented back and forth to each other, about why Danse’s right leg had completely stripped its servos and how Kostin knew the hydraulic fluid had a slow leak despite having not even worn the armor yet and the most efficient way to install upgrades to the HUD in their helmets.

Before too long, Danse realized he’d completed the list of repairs and Kostin was nearly finished the customizations of his new battle gear. They compared notes on their work, and for the first time in almost nineteen months Danse found himself feeling companionable towards someone else.

This realization was many times more terrifying than any combination of nightmares his subconscious had ever tortured him with.


	3. Punishment By Boredom

**DECEMBER 2287**

 

There was no reason the Glowing Sea should be so hot this time of year.

Danse was practically drowning in his own sweat within the confines of his power armor, constantly blinking to get it out of his eyes and feeling like his skin had been glued to the padded frame. At least they were on their way back, now, so it would be over shortly.

While he couldn’t say by any means their encounter with that Virgil character had been unproductive, Danse certainly didn’t enjoy it. The whole time Cutler had been on his mind, making him stupid with rage and grief to the point where he hadn’t taken part in the conversation at all. At least Kostin was more than smart enough to understand the technical details that had been hashed out at the time.

Speaking of which. The Knight seemed like he was struggling to keep pace with Danse, stumbling every few steps and all but dragging his weapon along the ground as opposed to carrying it. That couldn’t bode well.

“Permission to… rest for a… minute… sir?” Kostin panted across the comm.

“Negative, soldier. We need to clear the hazard zone as quickly as possible,” Danse stated. He tried to be stern like always, but his protege’s request was worrying. Knight Kostin never asked for breaks or complained unless it was in a humorous manner. “Is something wrong?”

“Just… just out of… breath, Paladin,” Kostin wheezed. “And… I think… my nose is… running… under my helmet.”

“Are you feeling nauseous or light-headed?” he questioned, glancing over his shoulder and then pausing to let the other man catch up.

“A little…”

“I see. Try to stay hydrated, Knight. We’ll be reachable by vertibird within two hours.”

Danse came alongside Kostin and braced himself under the man’s shoulder. This was a compromising position should they encounter any resistance, but clearly they were reaching the point of medical necessity. Unfortunately there was no means for him to administer pharmaceuticals without exposing Kostin to the elements, and that was the very last thing they needed now.

“Paladin…?”

“Yes?”

Before Danse even finished the word, Kostin was dropping fully onto the decimated earth. Spitting curses under his breath, Danse knelt down and struggled to haul more than 200 kilograms of dead weight back upright. He could hear Kostin’s ragged breaths sawing harshly through the filters and the surge of panic made adrenaline kick in - he was dragging Kostin forward with increased speed as a result.

The remaining distance to safe ground was agonizing, and as soon as Danse had struck the EM flare to summon a vertibird he was yanking Kostin’s helmet free. The man’s face was already starting to turn pink and his nose was gushing with blood.

“Hey, _hey!_ Wake up,” Danse snapped, shaking him lightly by his shoulder guards. Kostin spat red and blearily stared back with glazed eyes. “We’ll be returning shortly, try to stay conscious…. here.”

Danse yanked the water tube up far enough to reach Kostin’s mouth and forced him to drink until he nearly choked. The level of radiation exposure didn’t appear to be immediately lethal, but it was clearly beyond his rudimentary medical knowledge. All he could be certain of was that it wasn’t worth the difficulty of trying to get the Knight free of his suit, and that this would ultimately require Knight-Captain Cade’s expertise.

“Oh, shit,” Kostin mumbled weakly, and a second later he started gagging.

Danse frantically rolled him onto his side - not a moment too soon, either. His subordinate was violently ill and even restrained by his suit still managed to convulse slightly with each expulsion. Alarmingly, Danse noted that the vomit was laced with blood.

The damn vertibird couldn’t arrive fast enough, and once it had the return flight was torture. Kostin was uncontrollably sick all over them both and the inside of the transport, by now bleeding from his ears as well, and was almost unable to maintain an upright sitting position without Danse’s help.

Mercifully, Cade and a pair of Scribe-Initiates were waiting on the flight deck as they docked, so Kostin was immediately pulled from his armor and taken away for treatment on a stretcher. Danse was ordered to follow as well, leaving his own suit behind in the same location, and sat in quiet apprehension on a gurney while Kostin was triaged. Even through the bustle of being decontaminated and redressed, as well as the nuisance that was his own drip of RadAway, Danse kept tabs on his protege’s condition.

Kostin was in bad shape. The dull orange fluid was draining into him, of course, but he’d been drugged into unconsciousness with Med-X and was being scrubbed down just as thoroughly. They didn’t even clothe him after, just heaped him with sheets while the Scribe-Initiates taped bandages around his hands and feet. Cade supervised, offering tips to his apprentices and scribbling away madly on his clipboard through the entire process.

“What was his absorbed dose?” Danse questioned once the major tasks seemed to be completed.

“Over 300 rem,” Cade replied, frowning. “It won’t kill him, but he’ll certainly be uncomfortable for the next couple of weeks. I’m surprised you’re not similarly affected, to be honest.”

“He took a fall into dangerously contaminated water during an encounter with some feral ghouls,” Danse reported. “It seems likely that it increased his exposure far beyond mine.”

“Well, that makes sense… in any case, I’d like to keep you here overnight for observation just to make sure, Paladin.”

“Alright,” he agreed.

* * *

**AUGUST 2286**

 

Danse was far from in good condition by that point - he was fairly certain he’d managed to crack one of the bones in his left arm (he could only still handle his laser rifle thanks to his power armor frame), his helmet had just been blown from his head in such a way that blood was leaking into his vision from a cut in his right eyebrow, his suit was dripping hydraulic fluid and oil from several places.

But still, he couldn’t stop… not until he completed his objective.

Dismembered body parts, from the disgusting mutants and their victims both, were scattered liberally around the ruins. Danse had long forced himself to ignore the shredded meat and organs squelching under his metal boots as he advanced, but the sight still made him balk at times.

Finally, he arrived at a room in the super mutant hive and fought to keep from recoiling. The stench was almost unbearable without filters to shield his nose, some ominous green slime in small pools on the floor and gore smeared across the walls. A pile of recently murdered and dismembered corpses in one corner - scraps of bright orange still clung in places, red-smeared tags on their necks… unmistakably the remains of Brotherhood soldiers.

And beside them, a disfigured form, shivering.

Danse approached cautiously, eventually nudging the creature with his toe. Not fully formed, not completely mutated as of yet… but still almost unrecognizable. He had to actually check the thing’s neck for holotags, and was dismayed to find them under scraps of a flight suit so stained with blood he hadn’t drawn the connection at first.

“Jake,” the mutant croaked at him.

The voice had even been altered, but he couldn’t hold on to his denial any longer, because only one man in the Brotherhood ever called him that.

“No,” he answered flatly in a vain attempt to refuse the truth.

“Please,” Cutler gurgled, reaching a bloated hand out to him.

Danse felt his legs tremble for a short moment before he fell to his knees, dropping his weapon as he pitched forward so that his hands could find his armored gut while he vomited. There wasn’t much to lose from his stomach, but it still seemed to drag on longer than necessary.

Once finished, Danse struggled back to his feet. There was no theatrics wasted on the situation, no further attempts at speech, and he shot his friend cleanly through the eye. He knew he should be relieved, but in reality he only felt sick. His closest brother, his best friend… was now dead. And only after being horrifically disfigured.

Danse dutifully collected the tags, including Cutler’s, and proceeded to fight his way back out the direction he’d come. It was well into the next day by the time he’d struggled free, and his armor’s fusion core had run dry. Forced to abandon it, Danse waged a constant battle against his injuries and the overbearing exhaustion for nearly a week following until he finally made it to a friendly patrol.

Relinquishing the holotags to Scribe Rothchild and reporting the outcome of his excursion to Elder Maxson was (unbelievably) more painful than he’d expected, and sapped his remaining strength. Danse was forced to undergo a psychiatric evaluation shortly following, and despite his attempts to lie his way through it he was put on mandatory medical leave for ten days as a result. The only effect he noticed from this “treatment” was a new brand of nightmares, but - fearful of his mental health bed rest being extended - he neglected to inform the medical team.

* * *

**DECEMBER 2287**

 

Sleeping on a gurney in sick bay, Danse’s night terrors were so bad that he actually screamed himself awake at 03:00 hours. It was humiliating for him; he hadn’t done that in years until now.

Of course, Cade was alerted promptly by the Scribe-Initiate on duty despite Danse’s protests.

“Would you like to actually be _honest_ with me about your mental state for once, Paladin?” the Knight-Captain questioned in an obviously sarcastic tone.

Danse wasn’t intimidated by the glare and folded arms so much as the threat of being forced off active duty again.

“Even if I was, would you believe me?”

“You know that you’re an awful liar, right?” Cade snorted, rolling his eyes. “Now for the love of God, just tell me what’s going on.”

“I would prefer to respectfully decline.”

“That’s not going to fly with me, soldier. Now either answer me truthfully or I’ll confine you to quarters anyway and get Maxson involved. I’m sure that’s not what you’re hoping for.”

“I’m a chronic insomniac.”

“A fact I’m well aware of. Stop stalling.”

Danse sighed and rubbed his face with his palms. “I have… nightmares. Usually they’re memories of traumatic incidents from my past. The lack of adequate sleep often causes me to suffer headaches of varying severity.”

“I see…” the Knight-Captain muttered, frowning at the clipboard like it had personally offended him somehow even as he scratched his pen across it. “Has this affected your effectiveness in the field at any point?”

“Not that I recall. Or at least given the state of my unit prior to November, if my performance had suffered I attributed it to that instead.”

“How frequent are your nightmares?”

“They occur regularly. I average a peaceful night’s sleep less than once a month,” Danse admitted uncomfortably.

“Have your teammates said anything?”

“Scribe Haylen made an observation at one point, but I dismissed it at the time. Knight Kostin has voiced concerns on my behalf more than once, however.”

“Right… on a scale of one to ten, describe the headaches?”

“It usually falls at a six or seven. At times they reach ten and… and I’ve been incapacitated by them on occasion.”

Knight-Captain Cade gave him a very long look and then a sigh.

“Your mental status is obviously compromised, Paladin, and you should’ve reported this to me sooner.”

“My obligations as a squad leader-”

“Mean nothing if your anxiety disorder gets you killed in the field,” Cade interrupted forcefully. “Now. Since I know you won’t obey any orders when they’re for your own good without being forced, you’re to remain here for the time being until your subordinate has recovered or I deem you stable, whichever comes first. Before you start arguing, I _will_ allow you two hours of light duty per day to do with as you see fit - on the condition that you notify me beforehand. Should you fail to return to sick bay after those two hours, I’ll have you sent for and suspended from active duty until you complete a full range of psychiatric rehabilitation.”

Years of training and discipline kept Danse from groaning, but the urge still struck him every so often as it did now.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Cade nodded. He set down his clipboard and folded his arms again. “Listen to me, Jacob. You’re definitely not the only soldier I’ve had to treat for battle fatigue or post-traumatic stress, so believe me when I tell you that you’ve got to start looking after yourself better than this. You’re one of Maxson’s best officers and a great role model for a lot of soldiers… what kind of example would it be for the Squires if you collapse on a mission? Trust me, you’re not letting us down except when you let yourself down. So act accordingly in the future. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then. This isn’t a punishment, Paladin. I’m trying to help you. And if you can’t sleep, _speak up._ We have ways around that.”

 

The chronic boredom was worse than any amount of difficult missions or combat injuries - Danse just couldn’t reconcile himself with the fact that he was very literally sitting on his ass doing nothing all day.

As specified, he had a two-hour span each morning to with as he pleased… at first. On the third day, that privilege was angrily revoked by Knight-Captain Cade because Danse had been caught checking on his power armor to make sure it had been properly decontaminated by the Scribes. So now, despite being ambulatory and in no way wounded, Danse was more or less on enforced bed rest for the time being while he waited for Anthony to recover.

Wait. When the hell had he started calling the Knight “Anthony” in his head?

“I’m mentally stable,” Danse tried to insist very suddenly on the afternoon of day four.

Cade actually jumped a little, his head jerking away from the microscope on the counter. “Nice try, Paladin. _I_ decide when you’re mentally stable.”

“I’m going stir-crazy,” he growled. Normally, Danse didn’t complain about anything _ever,_ but this seemed like a bit much to him. “How does that not make it worse?”

“I have a mop and some abraxo if you’d like…”

“Yes! Fine! Just let me do something instead of idly wasting time!”

Well, at least he was in motion. Danse thoroughly swabbed clean the floor and then the walls until there wasn’t a speck of dirt to be found, not even in the corners. After that he scrubbed the cabinets, the counter, the lock-boxes with medications in them, even the garbage can until they gleamed. The IV poles and oxygen supply tanks were disinfected. He folded freshly-laundered sheets over the gurneys.

And then Danse was bored again.

“I was actually being sarcastic,” Cade chuckled, “but thank you for all of that. Even with help from the Scribe-Initiates I never seem to have enough time for a deep cleaning of sick bay.”

“You’re welcome,” Danse grumbled. “You can reward me properly by letting me leave.”

“That’s not going to happen,” the Knight-Captain replied flatly. He finally looked up from his terminal and twisted around to face the cranky Paladin. “Look, I have work to do and you’re distracting me.”

“Don’t you have any other menial tasks for me to occupy myself with?” Danse scowled.

“I have plenty of menial tasks, but you’re not a Scribe and therefore I can’t assign them to you.” Then Cade frowned slightly and appeared to think. “Actually…” He stood, scooped up a stack of folders, and thrust them into Danse’s grip. “Bring these to Quinlan for me, will you? Don’t look at them, obviously, just deliver them to him and while you’re at it you can ask him for some books to read that’ll keep you busy. If you’re not back here in five minutes, you know what’ll happen, so no stopping by the grease pit.”

“Got it,” Danse grunted.

Following Cade’s direction, he brought the files across the hall and idly scratched the head of the Proctor’s pet cat while Quinlan examined his bookcase.

“Do you have a preference of reading material, Paladin?”

“No, Proctor, I only require there to be enough to keep me entertained for roughly thirteen days.”

“Hmm… very well then.”

Danse returned to sick bay carrying  _1984_ _,_ _The Dark World_ _,_ _Starship Troopers_ and  _I, Robot_ _._ His reading skills weren’t anything exceptional (one of many reasons he was fortunate to have completed basic as a Knight-Initiate instead of trying to become a Scribe despite being told time and again he was very intelligent), but Quinlan had also let him borrow a dictionary to help that.

Unfortunately, Danse tended to be extremely limited in terms of imagination, as well as extremely logical, so the fact that these were all science fiction novels held little appeal to him. He generally preferred tactical manuals, history textbooks, and the like… if he was going to read fiction he preferred it to be “historical fiction” and not these outlandish tales. Just a few pages into  _Starship Troopers_ and Danse was desperately wishing he’d been more picky with Quinlan, but he doubted Cade would let him out again to correct his error. Besides that, the Knight-Captain was clearly drowning in paperwork and absolutely didn’t need more interruptions.

Apparently Anthony didn’t quite agree with that, though, because he started coughing. Danse glanced up from the page and saw his protege starting to gag, so he dropped the book on the chair and grabbed one of the metal buckets nearby. “I’ve got the situation under control, Knight-Captain,” Danse tossed over his shoulder while he held the other soldier upright on the gurney with the bucket strategically placed to catch the expulsions.

Anthony spat several times once he’d finished, then emitted a noise that couldn’t seem to choose between being a gurgle or a moan and thus tried to be both at once. Danse fought hard not to grimace at the smell of the vomit, carefully setting the bucket aside and lowering the Knight back down to the thin mattress on the gurney.

Cade appeared anyway, despite Danse’s earlier assurances.

“Kostin, how awake are you?”

“Uuuuggghhhhh,” Anthony groaned, shivering slightly until the thick layer of sheets was pulled back up to his chin. His eyes slid open briefly to land on Danse’s face, and then the sick man grinned stupidly. “Hey, _krasavchik, ti delaete chto-nibud segodnya vecherom…? Mi dolzhni vernutsya k moemu mestu…_ ” Anthony’s dark gaze became hidden again and he went limp almost as soon as he’d finished speaking.

“What did he say?” Danse questioned.

Cade only shook his head: “I have no idea. I didn’t even know he spoke other languages.”

“Does that mean he’s delirious? Was the dosage high enough to affect his neurological functions?”

“It’s possible the radiation may be having mild effects on his brain, but most likely he behaved that way because of the painkillers,” the Knight-Captain assured him. “I’m optimistic he’ll have recovered by the end of next week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthony, of course was speaking in Russian to Danse: "Hey, gorgeous, are you doing anything tonight? We should go back to my place!" :D


	4. Loss Is A Sickness

**DECEMBER 2287**

 

His sleep being interrupted had never bothered Danse in as long as he could remember, because it meant something was pulling him free of his night terrors. As he tried to find the source of the noise, he nearly rolled right off the gurney, but stopped himself just in time. It was even more of a relief to discover that what had woken him was Anthony groaning on regaining consciousness.

“Are you feeling ill, Knight?”

“Ughn… no, just… really fucking tired,” the other man half-slurred. Well, he even seemed to be lucid for the first time in about ten days. “Shit… did I throw up on you, sir?”

“You did,” Danse chuckled, “but fortunately the Scribes were in charge of caring for both our sets of armor, so I was at least spared the follow-up on the issue.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You’re not at fault, Kostin. You suffered severe radiation exposure and have been in treatment for over a week. This is the first time I’ve seen you aware of your surroundings since we returned to the _Prydwen._ ”

Danse watched him nod, then frown and look anywhere else. “Um… I think I remember… a little while back, I may have, uh, said something inappropriate to you, sir. If I did, I’m sorry.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Danse informed his protege. “At one point you were attempting to speak to me, but it was in a language I’m not familiar with and you were clearly delirious at the time. Rest assured, Knight, you didn’t tell me anything compromising.”

“Oh. Good. Hey, why are you here, too? Are you sick, sir?”

“No. Cade has me here for observation, that’s all. Generally speaking I’ve also been helping him keep an eye on you during your treatment so far.”

“Okay then. Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary, Knight.”

Anthony drifted back into sleep after that, leaving Danse to wonder what the other soldier had been so embarrassed to have potentiallys said before. Beyond that, though, he was just grateful the man was getting better. He didn’t know how well he could handle losing anyone else under his command, and more than that, he realized that he was starting to consider Anthony as his friend. And this, of course, served to bring the fear back to him… few though they’d been, things had never ended well for Danse’s friends in the past.

He couldn’t lose Anthony. He just couldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Kudos/comments HUGELY appreciated!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please feel free to check out my original WIP, [Nucleus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10027367).


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